


Skov has some secrets

by zippkat



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Pain Kink, Sensation Play, alcohol & drug abuse, magic dream pack boys 2015, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zippkat/pseuds/zippkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavinsky came back instead. Skov loved and hated and wanted Kavinsky, who did understand. Kavinsky understood what Skov wanted, and what he needed, and he was willing to give Skov exactly that. Skov, in return, knew Kavinsky. He understood all the bits inside him that didn’t quite fit, too monstrous or sharp or loose or angry. He admired his control, his skill in forgery, loved the way he saw people, loved the way he used them. Kavinsky was something else, something different composed with everyday parts. He was something else. They were two of a kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skov has some secrets

**Author's Note:**

> this is already on tumblr but i figured i might as well post it here

Skov felt nothing at all.

He wasn’t sure exactly where he was— someone’s living room, it looked. He could feel music pounding through the floor, could hear laughter and shouts from somewhere distant. Except for him, there was no one in the room. His knife was gone. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, or how long he'd been staring at the wall. Nothing felt real.

Fishing in his pocket, he found his phone, screen shattered courtesy of Jiang. Three missed calls; one from his grandma, two from Prokopenko. He wondered if he’d missed a substance party; the last time he could consciously remember was almost ten hours previously. He wondered if he’d even gone to class. Maybe he should stop letting Swan test his new stuff on him.

"Hey, motherfucker," said Kavinsky, and Skov put his phone down. Blinked. Was he at one of K’s parties? "Where the fuck have you been?" He slid onto the couch next to Skov, sprawling out.

Skov shrugged. Kavinsky regarded him, eyes bright, nose red. Skov stared at the wall and tried to summon the motivation to move his fingers, suddenly frozen, like a deer in the headlights. He couldn’t seem to piece together the way it worked.

“Skov.” Kavinsky’s voice demanded attention. It sunk into his spine, filling his bones, but Skov continued to stare at the wall. He should speak. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to.  He couldn’t remember how; he didn’t feel human, didn’t understand his own synapses, how his thoughts became waves became function. He became aware of his breath in his chest, accompanied with the thought that it was not his chest. His skin was not his own.

His breath hitched; panic flared in his throat.

Then Kavinsky was crouched in front of him, eyes hard.

“Skov,” he repeated, reaching out and taking Skov’s jaw. Skov’s breath came in gasps between his teeth. He stared at Kavinsky. He wondered if this was real. Then Kavinsky hit him, open hand across his face. The pain made Skov rear back and groan. Then it numbed into warmth and he blinked, owlish.

“Fuck.” His throat worked almost of it’s own accord. His voice was rough, scratched, like he hadn’t spoken all day. For a human, that wasn't normal, he had to remind himself.

“Better, princess?” said Kavinsky, mouth twisting into something gruesome. Skov knew what he was doing, and wished he could tell him to fuck off. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. The warmth was fading.

He blinked and time had passed-- he wasn’t sure how much. Fuck, why didn’t anyone talk about how fucking hard it was to be _there_ all the time.

Kavinsky had moved closer, was pressed against him, arms sliding around Skov like a cage. Skov swallowed, slumped, was absent, became present.

“Kavinsky,” he said, and it was a plea and a curse and a prayer. He was pushed onto his back.

Kavinsky smiled, slow and sick, straddling Skov’s thighs. “Glad to see you keeping up with the class,” he said. He ripped the shirt from over Skov’s head. Skov couldn’t find it in him to care; the air wasn’t cold, didn’t feel like anything at all. His skin felt empty, lukewarm, like rubber encasing his bones.

Kavinsky touched him like he was angry, pressing though skin as if looking for the real him. If Skov had been someone else, someone like Swan who bruised if you breathed on him, he would’ve been covered. Kavinsky started with his face, pressing against Skov’s lips and cheeks, hard, then down his neck. He squeezed at Skov’s throat, only the sides, and Skov blinked at him, breath coming easier.

Kavinsky gripped his shoulders and left indents with his fingernails, down Skov’s chest and over his stomach, over his sides. Skov felt like his skin was waking, filling with something warm and alive. His cock stirred, and Skov made a sound in his throat. Kavinsky sneered, and slapped him. It felt good, the heat of the sting, and Skov arched up.

“Sick fuck,” said Kavinsky, and he grinned, the same way he looked before he smashed someone’s brains out. Skov knew it wasn’t right, but fuck if it didn’t do things to him. He allowed himself a moment to imagine Kavinsky covered in his blood, hands red with it, and shivered.

Kavinsky liked to destroy things; all Skov wanted, since before he could remember, was to be destroyed. He always bounced back, after, but sometimes he got so close.

“Hey, man, pay attention,” said Kavinsky, words slick like oil. Skov thought he might choke on them. 

Kavinsky slid a thumb into his mouth, pressed Skov’s tongue down, forced his jaw open. Skov was glad he could no longer beg to be slit open and freed. He groaned instead, rolling his hips up, and Kavinsky hissed.

The sound of the distant party slid between being background noise and the loudest thing in the room, louder than the sound of Skov’s jeans as he desperately worked his hips, louder than the blood in his ears. Someone sounded like they were screaming.

“Fuck,” said Kavinsky, and he got up. Skov felt cold where he’d been, hollow everywhere else. “That’s fucking Jiang."

"What?" His voice sounded far away to his own ears.

"Time to get going.”

Skov stared at him, and wondered if his face said any of the things trapped below his throat. If it did, Kavinsky didn’t answer. He pulled Skov to his feet, kept a hand on his arm, and took him outside. Skov barely felt the cold, although his breath misted in front of him and he didn’t have his shirt. He barely felt anything.

Kavinsky drove him back, and for a while, Skov thought they were going to Aglionby. The sky was bright with false dawn before they stopped in front of Kavinsky’s place, and Skov was so fucking relieved he felt he might vomit.

Kavinsky’s room was a goddamn mess. It smelled like sweat and weed and sex and Skov loved it, secretly, loved the ratty coverings on Kavinsky’s bed and the disgusting carpet and the peeling posters of cars on the walls. He wished he had a room like it, part of him no matter how awful. He also, sometimes, thought about burning it to the ground.

Skov collapsed on the bed and stared at Kavinsky’s ceiling. He heard the others in the house, shouting and laughing. Kavinsky left to join them, or get something, or whatever.

“What’s with Skov?” It sounded like Jiang. Skov brushed his hair out of his eyes. His fingers smelled faintly like blood.

“Fucking sick.”

“Oh.”

Jiang wanted Kavinsky in an obvious way. His eyes crawled over him every time they were in the same room, desperate. If Skov was ever so obvious, he hoped someone would punch him. Sometimes Swan punched Jiang; Swan was Skov’s favorite.

Swan was just as bad as the rest of them, of course, but he was Skov’s favorite anyway. He forgave him for craving Kavinsky the same way he forgave them all. What sad little addicts; Kavinsky was bad for them, of course they’d pant after him. Skov did it too, sometimes, but he was sure he wasn’t so transparent as the others. He was sure, because Swan liked to ask him why he hung around.

_For this,_ Skov didn’t tell him. Skov tried not to talk if he could help it. Things sounded so much smaller outside his head.

He stretched in Kavinsky’s bed, relishing the dark.

He wanted something he could not have, and shouldn’t want. He wondered what he’d done all day, to make him so wired he couldn’t will himself to sleep. He wondered if the person whose body he had stolen would ever come back for it. He wondered if he could’ve ever felt normal, maybe, in some other life. He wondered if he would die before he knew the answer. Then he rolled over, stripped out of his jeans, and his underwear, and waited.

Skov was not normal; his grandmother had told him the truth when he was small, the only one to know. She’d whispered the secret into his ear, and he had remembered. He had not cried; she had.

The memory of it hurt. He wished, in that moment, fierce and hard, that he could go to Swan. Swan wouldn’t understand, but he would hold him and curse and touch Skov where he needed to be touched, and it was more than enough.

Kavinsky came back instead. Skov loved and hated and wanted Kavinsky, who did understand. Kavinsky understood what Skov wanted, and what he needed, and he was willing to give Skov exactly that. Skov, in return, knew Kavinsky. He understood all the bits inside him that didn’t quite fit, too monstrous or sharp or loose or angry. He admired his control, his skill in forgery, loved the way he saw people, loved the way he used them. Kavinsky was something else, something different composed with everyday parts. He was _something else_. They were two of a kind.

_Make me human,_ Skov wanted to say. _Make me a person, make me real._  He could almost hear Kavinsky’s reply.

_Never._

“Fucking Jiang,” said Kavinsky. He threw his shirt to the ground, stripped off his jeans, and climbed in next to Skov. Something was clutched in his hand. “Tried to light the fucking curtains.”

Skov made a sound, to demonstrate active listening, but he wasn’t really. Not until Kavinsky held his arm up, in the darkness, and flicked open the lighter. Skov was suddenly there, snapped back, breath coming in short bursts. Kavinsky could not know; he couldn’t not know.

He watched Kavinsky bring the flame closer, let his legs fall open, hard already.  

“I heard some wild shit, man.” Kavinsky’s hands were calloused and rough on Skov’s legs. The warmth from Jiang’s lighter made Skov itch with need, fear, and anticipation all at once. “From Proko.”

Prokopenko was Kavinsky’s monster. Skov wanted so much to be like him.

“Yeah?”

“Said you were with him today.”

Skov’s blood pounded through his temples. No wonder.  _Don’t look at me_ , he wanted to say. Kavinsky looked at him anyway.

“Wish I’d been there.” Kavinsky brought the flame close, burning Skov’s thigh. He gasped, flinching away, but Kavinsky’s hand behind his knee kept him close. Slowly, he brought the flame down, over Skov’s skin. It was unbearable; Skov thrashed, hands clawing at the sheets, his dick bobbing between his legs and dripping pre over his stomach. It was too much, it hurt; bright pain where the flame was, and a muted ache were it had been. He loved it, hated it.

“I could make you come like this,” Kavinsky said, letting the lighter close and rubbing his hand over the skin he’d burned. It hurt more like that. Skov shook, fingers knotted together above his head to keep from touching himself.  “Fucking slut you are, I don’t even have to touch you. It’s pathetic, man.”

Skov bit down on his arm to keep from crying out as Kavinsky took Jiang’s lighter to the opposite thigh. Tears pricked the corners of Skov’s eyes from the pain. Then the lighter was gone and Kavinsky leaned over him, digging his nails into the scabs on Skov’s stomach, making them bleed fresh. He bit at Skov’s neck, his jaw, his cheek, hard enough to leave marks.

Skov’s eyes rolled back in his head as he came, back bowing off the mattress, and for a few, wonderful moments, he was lost inside his head. Almost nonexistent. He came to just as Kavinsky brought himself off, jerking off over him and adding to the mess on Skov’s stomach.

Kavinsky crashed down beside him, fished around on the floor until he found a shirt to clean up the spunk and the blood. Skov let him, even though the shirt was probably his own. His thighs ached, like the heat of the burn was hiding just below his skin. Kavinsky wasn’t one for after orgasm cuddles, or pillow talk, but he rested one hand over Skov’s hip. Skov closed his eyes and tried to pretend tomorrow would be normal, that he hadn’t given himself away.

“Proko says you almost killed some bitch,” Kavinsky said, just as Skov started to slip away. He was brought back into himself almost violently. _Oh._

“Sounds like me.”

“He told me what you looked like.”

“Hot?” Skov tried for a laugh.

“Not human.”

Oh, that. Skov was glad he couldn’t see Kavinsky’s face. He’d gone all tense, breath barely coming, his skin next to Kavinsky’s red hot.

“Man, you know how I feel about secrets.” Kavinsky’s nails dug into his skin. Skov swallowed a groan. Then, in a different voice: “Did I dream you?”

“No.” Skov almost wished he had. He remembers his birth, hot blood in his mouth, knowing from the start how wrong he was. He remembers his mother making the switch, the soft creatures that raised him after, and how it had felt to lose both sets of parents. Many things come from the woods: wolves and demons and kings and changelings. He was just one of many, stranded in the wrong world.

“Not all the monsters in Henrietta are yours.”

“You are.”

Skov shrugged.

“Fuck,” said Kavinsky, pulling Skov close. He kissed him like a punishment. Skov bit back. Everything was heat and blood and flesh.

“I chose you,” he groaned, somewhere in Kavinsky’s mouth. "I chose this." His secret that was not a secret.

“Fuck you,” said Kavinsky, cheerful and slow. “You belong to me.” His hands curled around Skov’s throat.

_I do_ , Skov agreed, silent and writhing against dirty hands and fingernails.  _Your pet nightmare._

 


End file.
